Operation NICE: NICE Assignment: Thank Yourself

My assignment for the week, among too many others.

As you may have noticed, I haven't been writing and posting very regularly these last few weeks. I have been reeling in the wake of life events, from both ends of the spectrum.

As we welcome a new life into the world, my family ushers another out. This week we will be saying goodbye to our gentle-souled Joseph--father, grandfather, great-grandfather.

The Empress Has No Clothes

The New York Times today published "When All You Have Left Is Your Pride"--essentially that old adage 'fake til you make it'. Pride equates perseverance and, dare I say it, success in difficult times. A valuable lesson, especially as of late. I look into the mirror. Reflecting on myself is the only luxury I seem to have left these days.

This isn't exactly how I pictured making it into the Times. That woman they described? Yeah, it's me. They gave me some pearls in order to protect my identity. Little do they know, I need more than outdated fashion to hide.

Struggling through these first months of career reorientation, I find myself putting on my fancies to go to the grocery store for cat food. My daily dress rehearsal. I dress to seduce this new life, like I did those free drinks last night. I only hope that I can stave off the life-hangover better than the alcohol one.

I can't help but wonder, though, when I dash by, heels clicking resolutely, can you see my nightgown tucked under my coat? Do you notice that that jaunty hat really hides unwashed hair? Does my lipstick dazzle you, distracting you from the truth? Do my loud huffs and wrinkled brow read tough day of negotiations or tough day of silent rejections?

I walk along these city streets, through curtains of rain washing away the remnants of winter. These are the streets of my childhood; I have returned to them. These streets were meant to knit together, weave themselves into my safety net. I spent years visualizing what it would feel like to once again have them solidly underfoot. I imagined them to emanate a sense of belonging and comfort. I did not, however, imagine the gaping holes; had not foreseen that I would take a step and end up waist-deep. That's what happens when you keep your eyes on the clouds overhead, and the horizon in the far distance, instead of the unsteady ground directly in front. Lessons are taught the hard way, and dreams tested to their limits.

I walk quickly, splashing through shallow puddles, fighting with the thieving wind for my umbrella. I accelerate as I try to outrun my thoughts. I quietly duck into a dark alley, trying in vain to lose Anxiety. He has been stalking me. Again. I thought I had left him. But, as it turns out, he was never far behind. I sit in a darkened classroom, inattentive, chewing pens, watching minutes pass by. I know that he is there, Anxiety, just outside that thin door, waiting for my exit. I won't be able to see him, but I'll feel him hungrily stare after me. I'll wheel around. He will hide just around that corner, behind that door, just down that dark hallway. Always just a little faster, just out of sight.

I hear his excited breath as he haunts me, waiting for that perfect moment of tentative relaxation. Then he will pounce, as lithe and as effortless as a jungle cat. He will attach, boring his tentacles deeply inside me. Slowly, the venom will release, poisoning my blood. Soon, my heart will be pounding, my breathing short, my voice choked. My head will drown in the onslaught of thoughts, all yelling for my attention, swelling my brain past the confines of my cranium. There will be nothing left to do but give in; be sucked down into the pile of shit. The pile of my shit. The shit of my own doing.

I have sat here before.

Same shit. Same pile. Relocated several hundred miles to the north.

Surrender to The Silence

I've been silent. I've been silenced.

I was chased back into my hole. I had slowly started to peak my head out, to crawl up from the inviting gloom, to gingerly gather my courage up into a ball, cradle it in my palm. I had poked the very tip of my nose out, taken my first timid sniffs at the air, weary of danger. And then she came along, brash and crushing. I retreated, ungracefully, my feet not moving fast enough on this unstable ground.

And there I hid for the rest of the week. The more I fought myself to get out, craned my neck to blink my tired eyes at the sun, the deeper I slipped back. I dug in, I clutched at blades of grass. I exhausted myself.

As the days passed, I gave in. I hunkered down having decided that I was going to be there awhile. Perhaps I would give it another go when Summer called, but Spring was certainly facing a losing battle. But with Surrender came Sun, seeping in like an oil slick, touching the edges of Me, warming skin inch by little inch, highlighting the niceties all around.

An uninterrupted rant over a salad.
An unexpected note of encouragement.
A gifted container of soy ice cream.
A cry of Anya.
A sleeping kitty warming feet in the morning.
A single Pink Lady.

Surrender is a funny thing. Fight, lose your footing. Give in to the inevitable sinking, soar.

Brought on by: Operation Nice.

A Tidings of Magpies: She's Done It Again

Sigh...The Blessing

Thoughts on Dream Chasing

Lately, I have taken to keeping company with women—some newly acquired and others my constant companions. They are all whom I would like to be: successful, goal-oriented, career-driven, loved and loving. I often float up from the conversation, as if dangling from a string attached to a wrist, catching things left unsaid. I discover that at the heart of the matter, lays a sense discontent, indebtedness, hunger, and restlessness that matches my own. What happened to us? Surely this isn’t what our mothers dreamed for us as we lay in slumber protected by their wombs, a generation of women fighting to keep our heads afloat.

Ten years ago, on the precipice of my adult life, this is certainly not what I envisioned. Whilst lying awake surrounded by the midnight darkness of my teenage bedroom, visions of great romances and wild success danced in front of my eyes. Instead, I am staring down my thirties in a cloud of confusion—how do I want to spend the rest of my life, with whom, how do I get out of debt. These are the thoughts that now preoccupy my mind as the sun peeks over the horizon, dancing across the dewy pavement outside my window. My shallow breath fogs up the glass as my hand unconsciously caresses the cat. In my dreamiest moments, the answers are clear. But the new day shines a sobering spotlight on the reality of it all, highlighting. The dreams have stayed the same; the path to travel has grown exponentially in inverse relation to the time at hand.

What happened and where it all went wrong haunts me. Fleeting moments of my past, missed opportunities, missteps taken rotate overhead like a crazed mobile, taunting. I once again find myself on the ledge to nowhere. Wind rushes by, lashing at my shoulders, cheeks, hair. I alternate between gripping with everything I can muster, and leaning out, experimenting with the sensation of freefall. My voice is at once choked silent in my lungs and escaping in powerful bouts—the ebb and flow of the daily panic.

You’re lucky, they tell me. My days are seemingly free, dictated by my own whims and fancies. I catch the envy as it slips faintly across their faces. They don’t see the hard work, the hours of practicing smiles and the perfect pitch of positive notes, the careful camouflage of the bruises on my ego, the miles run chasing. It’s altogether exhausting.

Thoughts on Luck, and other lucky thoughts

Today is St. Patrick’s Day, and a rather glorious one at that. The sun is shining bright, warming the air outside. Windows are thrown open infusing the apartment air with springtime smells. A smile snakes across my face, stretching to the limits. My thoughts scatter across the computer screen; eight tabs sit waiting for me to come back to them as I race along following the links whimsically. Today is not a day for concentration, but for playing in corn fields and chasing butterflies across the sky. I skip along, humming, stopping to talk to trees awaking from their wintery slumber.

Today I am lucky because I am free to do so.

Today is a day of luck—fields of lush green clovers, the four-leafed kind tucked safely away from gluttonous fingers, and leprechauns with their overflowing golden pots held tightly against chests taking refuge under the canopy. And today my mind turns over the concept of luck. Chance, serendipity, fate? Nay, luck is perspective, appearing before your eyes if you choose to see it.

On this day of luck, with clovers dancing in pub windows, I take stock.

I am lucky for this viewpoint, to recognize my luck, to give thanks every time my mind is clear enough to see it. I am lucky to have the breath in my lungs that pulls in the positive and pushes out the negative, fueling my fire. I am lucky to have the heart that beats in my chest, nourishing my physical body, and carrying love for all things around me. I am lucky to have my fabulous blender with all its gadgets and attachments with which to make my morning shake and weekly batch of hummus. I am lucky to have a computer, despite the crashes and other annoyances, for it is my vehicle for sharing. I am lucky to have people on the other end of these ramblings, and that they, in turn, are receptive. I am lucky to receive their love and support everyday from all directions, especially those unexpected. I am lucky to have ears that hears these songs and a voice with which to answer their call. I am lucky that I have the freedom to change my mind and the course of my path. I am lucky to feel excitement about what tomorrow will bring. I am lucky to have a mind that wanders in all directions, that is attentive enough to support these different thoughts, and the knowledge that it will eventually be pieced together. I am lucky to have unending curiosity that brings me to all of life’s little adventures, and an ego small enough to learn from them always. I am lucky to have hindsight in all its 20/20 glory to remind me of life’s lessons, when I didn’t pay attention the first go-round. I am lucky for a roof and four walls to house me and my kitty, to shelter us from frigid wintery nights and wet springtime days. I am lucky to have warm arms that wrap around me, offering comfort and reinforcement. I am lucky to have this strong couch to rest my often weary body on. I am lucky to have been kissed, deeply and without reserve. I am lucky to have kissed back. I am lucky to have found my frogs, each one bringing me that much closer, and each one far less poisonous than the last. I am lucky to have traveled down a rocky road, without which I never would have found that strength in my legs to carry me forward. I am lucky to have found my resolve. I am lucky in knowing that I will not settle. I am lucky to have dreams to cling to at night. I am lucky to find the words to express this and so much more.

For this, and everything else that sits hidden in the nooks and crannies of my mind, I am lucky.

A Tidings of Magpies: In the Coffee Shop

A lovely poem posted at, one of my new favorites, Tidings of Magpies. This is the kind of piece that I lose myself in, and find myself sighing.

In the Coffee Shop

Thoughts on A Song

I find myself listening to the same album, same song, on a loop lately. It has become the soundtrack of these secluded days. At times, softly in the background, barely more than a whisper. At others, it blasts from the speakers. I plug it into my ears as I wander through the city, from one destination to another. Pointless wandering meant to do nothing more than to keep my feet on this frozen ground, force me into the world of others. Proof of my existence. I sing, hum, whistle, and absently sway along. It only drives me further into my head, further away. The more it plays the more invisible I become, hidden behind the walls of my thoughts. I can’t decide which is more deafening: the music or my thoughts. They are warring.

I am thrown back and forth in time by the melody. Lines, small snippets, call out to me, stop me in the middle of whatever I’m doing—drinking, reading, staring off into space. I am twenty-three again. I have just left everything behind, tore off down the highway. Everything I yearn for is at its end. I am in a constant state of breathlessness, brought on by excitement, thrill, anticipation, fear, and outright panic. I am on the precipice. Of what I don’t quite know. Something. I feel it in every pore, every inch of my skin crawls with it. It’s big. I am sure of it. This is my redefining moment, the moment that will change it all. I see my path unfolding at my feet. At first glance, it is as straight as an arrow. And as I take my first step, it curves wildly in all directions, sharp curves and bottomless drops, spirals and death rolls. I lose my footing. I get up. I trek on. And always, these lyrics accompany me on my journey.

I am thrust back to the present. I am once again on the ledge to the unknown, my past and present paralleling. I suppose this is the obsession with the music, the same calling, same yearning for answers and solid ground. If I could only gather the courage to jump, I would be saved. I finger the rope attached to my ankles. It is slack now but will pull taut with the freefall. It will not let me hit the ground. The net will appear if only I jump. Or so I tell myself. I try to resurrect the girl of five years past; I summon her with all my might. Melody lulls her back to me. I try to feel her pulse in my veins. I push play hoping that like a serpent, she will uncoil and rise up. I crank the volume trying to drown the doubting voice.

Am I like my ever-reoccurring soundtrack, doom to repeat itself endlessly until the batteries run out? I overlay the transparencies of time. I take solace in the slight differences, trying to look past the terror of the similarities.

Observations on Unemployment

Or the active practice of the freelance lifestyle.

First, I need to double up on my toilet paper purchasing. A four pack used to last me what seemed like a month. I hadn't factored in the increase rate of pee at my last TP purchase. Upon observation, it has increased exponentially. I suppose I am left with only two options: invest in the 8-pack or wipe less often.

I hope the hundred-year old plumbing holds up with the corresponding increased rate of flush.

Second, increased consumption rate also applies to the heat. Once realized, I now walk around with a blanket draped over my shoulders at all times. Coupled with the pink fuzzy slippers and the constant din of the argument with the cat, I have now become the crazy neighbor. I must say, though, the view is much nicer from this side of the table--less judgmental and more free.

I shall sing on the top of my lungs while slow dancing with said kitty in rejoice.

Third, same consumption rate applies to food. Must now factor in three meals plus snacks when at grocery store. Must break free of my shopping habit to favor dinnertime foods. Besides, I have grown tired of eating seitan for breakfast. Must also remember this in future.

Fourth, the active practice of the freelance lifestyle is neat. Literally. My kitchen is rather spotless, dishes always done, and bed always made. Cleaning is such a productive form of procrastination.

Through the Living Room Wall

Every night around this time, I'm treated to a private concert through my living room wall. I sing along with them, swaying my shoulders to and fro. My eyes flutter shut. I imagine them slow dancing in their living room, a lover's bedtime ritual. Socked feet turn soft circles on the carpet; a threadbare pattern webs around the room. Head rests on a shoulder. Cheek rests on a bed of hair. Arms wrap across torsos, shielding one another from the outside world. Sighs escape lips as bodies release worries of the day. Tension leaks out, inking across the floor, retreating into corners to wait out the nighttime reprieve. Once light breaks, eyes are opened by piercing shrieks from the alarm clock, showers taken, and coffee cups emptied, tension will reattach itself on backs, leaching imperceptibly back into bodies as the hours tick on.

But until then, lungs expand and contract; sounds of contentment break through lips. From my side of the wall, the song fades to a close. My eyes open and my body halts mid-sway, brought back to the reality of my own empty living room. For a brief moment, my ears are flooded with the sound of my own breathing, the overpowering buzz of silence. I hear the creak of ancient floor boards as weight continues to shift from one foot to the other.

Then, without warning, the swell of a new song. The lover's dance continues. It is not yet bedtime. I close my eyes once more, returning to the couple's living room unperceived. I am a voyeur in my own mind's eye, a silent participant. Three strangers bound by one nightly ritual.

From time to time, one neighbour catches the other's eye, on the street corner outside our building, climbing out of the bus after an endless day. I look back knowingly, reveling in our shared secret. They, puzzled. I smile. 'See you tonight.' I say, under breath, with each real life rendez-vous. I am never treated to a response. I blame the bus charging down the street.

Mondays are Hard

There’s no way around it, no way out of it. I’ve spent the weekend surrounded and occupied, the music of laughter filling my ears and lifting my heart. I get lost in it, swept along, feeling as though it will last forever. Friday heaves me high up in the air, powered by anticipation. Monday drops me unceremoniously into the depths of reality. Everyone is off in their productive lives. I am left to sit home alone.

My phone rests silently on the coffee table. I check on him from time to time, to make sure that he is still alive and well. He is. I contemplate pulling the plug. His seems like such a wasted life; he would be better off simply off. I gaze at him apologetically.

Sorry you got stuck with such a dud. You deserve someone much more in demand than I. I hope you don't feel as useless as I imagine you to. I hope you understand. I promise to not drop you as much, hopefully that will make you feel better about being with me. Although, I doubt it.

I stare off into space, following the snowflakes as they drift towards the pavement below. I try to visualize a positive outcome to this whole mess. Truth be told, my heart’s really not in it. I troll the internet looking for the key to unlocking my destiny; only to end up depressed because, as it turns out, the key is for sale and I can’t afford it.

The Universe feels like a giant catch 22 today. What's one lowly unemployed person supposed to do? Wash my coffee cup, dry it, put it away. Breath in, breath out. This will all be worth it one day.

Repeat as needed.

I <3 Mtl

Walking down a narrow, barely-lit street in the Plateau one evening I happened to look up and was rewarded by baring witness to the perfect Montreal moment. I don't know what drew my eyes to that window--this being a frosty winter night, the windows were sealed shut. Maybe it was the light flicker from the television set, maybe it was simply divine chance. Either way, for a short time, I was utterly engrossed. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbstruck, shoulders sagging from the weight of my grocery bags and numbing fingertips.

And there he was, framed perfectly in the large window. Four feet tall with brown shaggy hair falling in his eyes and a red Canadiens shirt, jumping in the glow of the TV, arms raised overhead in rejoice, small hands clutching a miniature hockey stick. I could almost hear the muffled thumping of his socked feet, his breathless squealing, the sheer joy through the glass pane.

And there I was, grinning stupidly, alone, on a dark street with ripping grocery bags, staring into a stranger's window.

It was a Thursday night. The scene, with players both young and old, repeats in countless living rooms across the city.

Post Script

Due to recent comments, I thought I would clarify...yes, I know that I misspelled writing in the url. thewritingspot written correctly was taken.

Thanks for looking out for me, though.

What is this Writing Spot?

Having quit my job in fashion, I have been left with a gaping hole. What to do now?

Realization came (finally), decision made. Follow my heart. And it has led me here. To write, to share, and, hopefully one day, to find myself with a new, passion-filled career.





Also, I got tired of emailing my random thoughts to everyone. In this new economy, I thought it wise to consolidate.